Blog Links Just some of the great blogs I keep stumbling on. Go for an explore, and if you see any really good ones, let me know...
- the hottest blogger I know. - I hate knitting. However, I love this blog. Who'd have thought? - If you ask me, it's perpetual brilliance! - 'nuff said. Inspired - inspiring.
- ...into light. Xenouveau - Her from Sadisticland. All Geek To Me - Fun from Scout Finch.
Elven Sarah - Witty and weird, a bit like me (but witty). Sedgefield - A nice blog, which may have died from meme deficiency... - A great lady had a great blog. Hopefully it returns...
superphase - A stick hero for the masses...
Sadly, we have been given the cold Shoulder. - a great blog from the continent, nice and warm there. - Not indulgent any more.
She Speaks - The star-crossed lover is now silent.
Organic Feminism - A tremendous blog. Even though she calls me Scoots *shudder*
You can no longer get your soup fix from souplover.
Well, I decided to stay off work last Tuesday. At least for a couple of days. I called in sick, and then inexplicably became sick! How lucky was that?
I'm feeling grumpy today, and here's why.
The travel situation has not improved. The coach driver took an extra 10 minutes for the short journey, meaning that I missed the only train for 40 minutes. Needless to say, I was very late for work, and I'll have to work it back now.
I forgot to clean out the bath. My sister is fastidious, bordering on obsessive compulsive disorder. She was extremely and vociferously unhappy.
I still haven't heard about my college application. It's starting to rub me up the wrong way. I HAVE to get on this course. My sanity depends on it.
Which reminds me, I've lost my student loan application form. It's due in on Friday, and I haven't seen it for a long time.
I've just typed out the whole entry over the space of an hour, switching between other programs, and it inexplicably disappeared, without even telling me.
There's more, but it's hard to type with my fists clenched...
I wrote a song about a washing machine the other week.
I was sat in the sunshine on a fold-up chair, strumming away, and two of my recent thoughts bounced headlong into each other, forming a new idea.
My sister was given a washing machine by her friend a year ago. "I've no room for it, so you can have it," she said. They went on a holiday, and my sister paid this friend's share of the hire car, £50. She thought, "that will cover the washing machine."
So, a few weeks ago, this friend called. "I want the washing machine back now." My sister was agog. This wasn't helped when the friend said, "I'll tell you what, give me £50 and you can keep it."
MY sister is prone to extreme indignation, as I found out this morning when I forgot to wipe down the bath before setting off to work. While she was telling me about the washing machine and the so-called "friend", she used a name for her that I'd never heard before.
"Indian Giver". I've looked into it, and the phrase dates back to the 19th century. Etymology
Well, this phrase lodged itself somewhere in the back of my mind, until the folk festival, where I was camping. It leapt out and mugged an unsuspecting phrase from Hamlet, and they both tumbled out. From there the song pretty much wrote itself. I've tweaked it and fine-tuned it, and now I'm very pleased with the results. I intend to record it as an mp3 and upload it for comments, so watch this space.
This weekend I went to another folk festival to try out the song on some musicians. I played three songs in total; American Pie, my own song, and Hallelujah.
Perhaps it was a subconscious thing, but I messed up the other songs (by my standards). he performance of my song was the best I've done so far. Afterwards the guy who'd been running the night came and told me I should play pubs and clubs to finance myself through college.
It took a while for my swollen head had returned to the correct size, I can tell you!
And then back down to earth with a bump on Sunday. I could do nothing right, none of my suggestions were heeded, and a song I'm trying to write continues to elude me, both the lyrics and tune.
I sulked myself to sleep. Eventually.
Well, it wouldn't do to get starstruck off the back of one song, would it?
You know that feeling when you've just missed a train. It's similar to the feeling you get when you make a perfect cuppa, and then spill it all over yourself. It takes the shine off the brew, and the train journey for that matter.
So I trudge onto the platform, taking in the sights. There's usually an array of attractive women for me to embarrass myself by gawping at, and this time is no different. In particular there's a lovely looking brunette, pink top, denim skirt, bare midrif, hauling a flight bag. I gawp as she passes, oblivious, and drag myself back to the matter at hand - finding out when the next train is due. As I wait for the information I glance up the platform. This vision is sitting on a bench up at the end of the platform.
Well, I'm feeling uncharacteristically confident, so I decide to sit by her, perhaps even break the habit of a lifetime and actually speak!
I discover that the next train, due in 30 minutes, will be ten minutes late. Oh well, I console myself, I can chat to this girl. I head for the bench, just to see her heading in the other direction. Cursing silently under my breath, I pass her and sit at the bench, singing to myself while I watch her disappear into the station.
I've been trying to learn the words for this particular song, so I get carried away. Singing quietly to myself, I don't notice until she sits back down. Make or break time. I need to talk. I can't. I keep singing softly, and give up on the crazy idea.
"Excuse me, do you know what time the train is?"
I'm startled out of my croon, and look at her. She is very pretty; slim, fresh-faced, lightly freckled. I'd place her in her early twenties, if I could concentrate on more than her smile.
I impart the information; she thanks me. And then something strange happens.
"Are you off on holiday?" I ask.
And we talk. We talk at length, about her current circumstances, about mine, about our aspirations, plans and hopes. We board the train together, still talking, standing in the vestibule, a collective curio amidst the silently suited businessmen. At the next station there's more room, so we find a couple of seats next to each other. We are alighting at the same station, and she hasn't been to that platform before, so I guide her to the taxi rank. We make our farewells and part.
I'm buoyed up by altogether wonderful experience.
So Kirsty, thanks for sharing your time. I hope the move to Portugal went smoothly, and your boyfriend problems are over.
Just when you thought it was safe to get on a train...
I had it all sorted out.
I catch the bus at 5:40, arrive at the bus depot at 5:50, catch the next bus at 6, arrive at the railway station at 6:45, hop on the train, arrive at my destination at 7:20, and wander into work at 7:45, nice and early all relaxed.
Today I arrived at the station to find that the much-threatened line works had already started. So I hopped on the coach, which took me on a whirlwind tour of the outlying regions before depositing me at the next station along, 20 minutes later. Only then could I hop on the original train. Of course, it arrived 20 minutes later than usual.
Fair enough, I still (just about) made it into work on time. But now I have a quandry.
My monthly rail pas is about to expire. I understand that the works are due to last for 2 weeks, but of course these things have a tendency to overrun.
So, do I buy another monthly train ticket, or find an alternative bus-only conduit...
I left early from work, and made an earlier train. Busy, as usual. I found 3 empty seats around a moustachioed gentleman. Two were taken, so I cajoled my way into the third. I offered moustache some maltesers, but there was something amiss with the packet, or more likely, the shop where I bought em. They were all white and bulging. They didn't taste too bad though.
As the train pulled off, the other two occupants returned. I offered them some of the dubious maltesers, and in returned they offered me some Jack. It sounded like a pretty good deal to me!
My sister picked me up from the bus station to drive to our parents' house. I slept for a few hours, and then stayed up for a couple. I slept for about 11 hours in total on Friday. I suppose this 5 hours sleep a day lifestyle catches up with you eventually.
The day of the interview. I woke up at 10, got ready, had breakfast, and my dad drove me to the computer logistics centre. I have a faulty network card, and the easiest method of returning it was to deliver it directly. Or so I thought. It appears that although people work there on a weekend, none of them work in reception, which was shut tighter than a drum. After ten minutes of frustration and knocking, I retreated with bruised knuckles, and we headed on to the interview. But wait, the head office was across the road, so I posted it there. With luck they'll have people walking back and forth, so my faulty part won't disappear forever...
And so to the interview. I headed into the college refectory and beamed at the greeter. "Hello there!" I said, dapper in my black single breasted suit, purple shirt and tie, pierre cardin shoes and styled hair. "I've come for my interview at 2pm."
"Oh," said the greeter. "She was going to leave at 1pm. I talked her out of it. We don't have anything down for her today."
I gulped. Needlessly, as it turned out. It seems she had forgotten, but the upshot was that I had an hour long interview that finshed an hour early.
I had my interview, it whirled by. I don't know how it went, but I'm cynically hopefull.
I slept again all afternoon, and again later.
I woke up late, played a bit of guitar, videotaped my parents hacking away at the back garden, helped a little myself, and then my sister returned us home.
Spartacus was not in. He hadn't been seen since Friday morning, and I was starting to fret. We mounted a search party, to no avail, and my glum disposition extended to a full melancholia.
And then I heard a noise, just on the edge of my hearing. I was mid -iron, so I called to sis; "quick! the door!"
In he comes, with £250 in cash, and a tattoo of a devil. He received an inordinate amount of affection, I can tell you...
I've written this for my interview tomorrow, I needed a review or something about a film. I watched Leon (The Professional), since it's one of my all time favourite films. I'd like some comments on this, in case I need to completely rewrite it this evening or tomorrow morning...
Léon, also known as The Professional, was released in 1994. Directed by Luc Besson, and starring Jean Reno, it also starred Gary Oldman, fresh from the success of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and featured Natalie Portman in her first major film role. A hit man (Reno) rescues 12 year-old Mathilda (Portman) from the murder of her family by corrupt DEA officers, led by Stansfield (Oldman). She persuades him to teach her the assassin’s craft, so that she may avenge her brother’s murder by killing Stansfield. Before long, Léon’s life becomes inextricably linked with Mathilda’s and Stansfield’s, until events reach their bloody conclusion.
On the surface, Léon is a tale of revenge, but there are underlying themes of justice, family, and belonging throughout.
From the outset, we see Léon in a position of power. He is remorseless, invulnerable. Even in the hotel room he occupies, he has a rigid routine: the care of his plant, the two quarts of milk per day, the catnapping with a pistol to hand.
Contrasted with Léon’s lifestyle is that of Mathilda; her father is a violent drug dealer and her stepfamily is animalistic and hostile. It is only her younger brother who shows any affection, and Mathilda cherishes this. She dangles over the stairwell, and teeters on the edge of this doomed family. It is only through her friendship with Léon that she escapes their fate.
As they begin to warm to each other, their routines change, approaching an unorthodox, yet happy, domestic scene. Mathilda craves this harmony, and grows to love Léon. She tells him, and he chokes. Here Besson has made a joke of the inevitable comparisons to Lolita (Stanley Kubrick - 1962), for it is a father/daughter relationship. Mathilda lies on the bed, arms outstretched, in a pose of divine rapture, and to show that her feelings are reciprocated, Léon mirrors this pose when he finally wreaks Mathilda’s revenge on Stansfield.
Léon and Mathilda spend the whole film on the move. They are nomadic, without roots, like Léon’s aglaonema. From one hotel to another, they have no home. It is only after Léon’s death that both of his charges, his plant and Mathilda, find some permanence.
Léon prophesises the changes to his life and his own demise right from the outset. He wrestles with his conscience over whether to answer the door to Mathilda, whether to allow himself to get involved. Besson makes effective use of lighting in this scene, bathing Mathilda in white light as Léon opens the door, as though from an angel. Later Léon decides to kill her, but he cannot; he already realises that he is doomed. Once he has become her father figure, he cares more for her than himself. This is demonstrated when he awakes suddenly in bed, unarmed. We know now that his life as an assassin is over. Like Hamlet, Léon is a tragedy in the classical sense. Those who have killed are destined to die themselves, to maintain a sense of fair play and justice. So Léon must kill Stansfield and his subordinates, and yet die himself so that Mathilda, the true innocent, may survive.
No, I didn't drive into it, on a scooter or bike. I just found myself peering over the adjacent peaks, wondering why I can't see anything.
My laptop is more belligerent than ever. The unwelcome insertion of a wireless card has caused it to throw up its metaphorical hands in frustration and keel over far too many times for me to put up with it any more. I shall be sending back the aforementioned wireless PC suppository, and try my luck on a more expensive one...
Just watched The Substitute, starring Tom Berenger as an inept mercenary who gets a job at a school for drugdealers. It was difficult to turn my head away from the trainwreck of a film. Now I have one day to write my movie review for my movie degree interview.
My sister has arranged for a lodger to inspect my room on Tuesday. When she leaves for Mexico, I will have her room, and the lodger will get my room. Thus the room must be impeccable for this visit. Already I have raised the bed by 2 inches cramming stuff under it!
I was walking from the station to the bus stop on thursday, when a woman promoting chewing gum handed my about 30 free samples. It's nice, but leaves a metallic taste. She was nice too, as it happens...
We all have an epiphany, every now and then.
A sudden, overwhelming realisation; that cathartic moment when a nagging thought becomes an all-consuming emotion that threatens to choke the very life out of you.
I've had more than my fair share recently.
When I was 5, I had one at school. Standing in the playground, cheeks hot with tears, cruel jibes stinging my ears. I couldn't articulate it at the time, even to myself, but somehow I knew with a spirit-crushing futility that I did not fit in. That I was the kid who would be "gang initiation" or "moving target" for the rest of my school life. And boy, did it hurt.
Then there was the one when I knew that I would be splitting up with Kate. That one was a relief, despite the anticipated difficulties. I knew I had to end it, or be miserable indefinitely.
I just had another one, and not a good one at that.
You know the feeling when you walk through an art gallery, and you see Haywain by John Constable. You're transfixed, and you resolve to have that fine piece of work. So you wait for the auction, and join the bidding. You reach £3,000,000, the very limit of your funds, and then wham! Some american businessman tops your bid. At that moment, you realise that the space in your heart reserved for the Constable will never be filled; that the very best you can hope for is a facsimile, a mere likeness of the original, and someone else's eyes will gaze upon the beauty of the Haywain for as long as you continue to draw breath.
Of course, you're still left 3 million in a suitcase, so it's not all bad...